Irrational, Unconditional
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock may be a genius, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have his fears. Unrelated oneshots putting Sherlock into situations where he gets a little bit frightened. Chapter Three: He hasn't been to the dentist since he was a kid.
1. Flying

**Irrational, Unconditional**

John knew better than to think it... but Sherlock had also taught him to _observe_ his surroundings and right now, thirty-thousand feet above the ground, John was observing that Sherlock Holmes did not like flying.

Of course, this was a given going into the plane trip for a case. Sherlock hated to sit still when he had something on, and an eleven hour flight to America left little room for the consulting detective to do anything. So, he was antsy. That was to be expected.

However, Sherlock looked _nervous_. He was fidgeting, licking his lips often, occasionally gnawing at his lip as he gazed out the window. He barely looked away from it but when he did, his eyes bounced from one thing to another erratically. He hadn't touched a thing to eat and wouldn't have anything to drink, and mostly just sat with earbuds in and listened to... whatever he was listening to on them.

Sherlock shifted again, switching his legs to cross them at the opposite ankle, tongue flicking out to wet his lips again.

John sighed. He didn't _really_ know if Sherlock was anxious because of the plane ride or if, perhaps, something was wrong with him. He reached over and hooked a finger around the earbud cord to pull it loose.

Sherlock looked around at him, frowning. "What?"

"Are you okay?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're fidgeting all over the place. I asked you if you wanted the aisle-"

Sherlock shook his head once. "I'm fine."

John resisted the urge to sigh - again. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" Sherlock asked.

"The 'I'm fine' thing when you're clearly not. You keep biting your lip, licking them. You're fidgeting, so you're clearly uncomfortable. Either you're just antsy because we're on a case and there's nothing to do up here or something's wrong. Have to go to the loo or something?"

Sherlock swallowed just then, a motion that John nearly missed but immediately recognised, given the circumstances.

"Are you sick? You're not going to throw up, are you?"

Sherlock scowled. "I am not. I hope I'm not," he muttered, more to himself. "I think I will stretch my legs, though," he said, raising his voice again.

John watched him stand, a little less fluidly than usual. "You get motion sickness?"

"_Air_ sickness," Sherlock clarified. "I have no problem on trains or in cars. Yes, I do."

John frowned. "Did you take something?"

"For air sickness? No." Sherlock moved past John easily, stepping out into the aisle.

John followed him with his eyes. "They make meds, you know, pills."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Do they?"

John sighed. "Maybe take some next time you go on a flight."

Sherlock nodded slightly before putting his hands in his pockets and striding away with as much grace as a man with air sickness on a plane. John watched him vanish into the loo, wondering if he had gone there to throw up and wouldn't tell him after.

Still, when Sherlock returned, he was sipping at some light carbonated drink and seeming, if not nauseated, more nervous. He flopped right back into his seat and sighed heavily over his drink, eyes slipping closed. Almost as soon as they had closed, they opened right again and returned to the window.

"Sherlock?"

He had been about to ask if he was sure that he was okay when the seatbelt sign clicked on. John sighed, prodded Sherlock and pointed at the sign, and fastened up his belt.

"Did you go to the toilet to throw up?" John asked bluntly, looking back at him.

Sherlock looked back at him. "What? No. I went to the toilet to _use_ the toilet," he said dryly, looking back at the window. "And with relatively good timing, given the seatbelts." He sighed, reaching for his drink again.

The captain informed them that they were going to be experiencing some turbulence soon, but John disregarded the announcement in favour of watching Sherlock. "Is there a reason you aren't looking away from the window? Can't be that interesting."

Sherlock looked back at him again. "Not really."

"Is that a not really to the reason question or a not really to the interesting statement?"

Sherlock's lips twitched down again. "What?"

John sighed. "Nevermind."

John was just about to turn back to his book when he noticed the turbulence. Just a small bump, nothing that particularly bothered him, but the reason for the seatbelt was clear in that moment.

And, also, something _else_ became quite clear in John's mind at that exact moment.

Because Sherlock's head had snapped up at the bump and, for a moment, there was a flash of full-blown panic blowing Sherlock's pupils wide in the brightly-lit cabin.

"... You're afraid of flying," John said. It wasn't a question.

Sherlock swallowed again and set his drink down. "I would say that 'afraid' is a bit of a stretch," he muttered, swallowing yet again.

John started to wonder, sincerely, if Sherlock would keep his stomach down. There was no option of getting to the loo now and John doubted Sherlock's tolerance to throwing up into a paper bag.

"You're afraid," John said quietly.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, fine, I am. I'm not very good at flying and I never have been. It's too cramped and boring and there's an infinite amount of things that could wrong. A simple bird strike could take the whole plane down."

"You know the probability of that happening, right?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighed. "It is irrational. But..." he trailed off. John watched him shiver, visibly, and look away.

"It's alright to be scared," John said, "but I'm sure we'll be fine."

Sherlock shrank in on himself slightly, ducking his head. "That is the logical outcome." He swallowed, fidgeting a bit more.

"... Sherlock," John muttered. "We're fine. You're fine."

Sherlock looked back at the window. "Yes." His squirming had stopped, but his foot had started to bounce quickly.

"Why do you keep looking out the window if you're afraid of flying?"

"I want to make sure the plane isn't going to crash when I'm not looking," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "It's not going to crash. Just a little turbulence."

Even as he spoke, there was another jolt from the turbulence. Sherlock's breath caught and his exhale sounded almost like a whimper.

"Hey." John reached over, gripping his shoulder. "Everything's going to be fine. Okay?" Sherlock ignored him. "Sherlock," John repeated, squeezing his shoulder. "Look at me."

Sherlock looked back at him. "What?" His eyes flicked to John's hand on his shoulder and then back to meet his gaze.

"We're going to be fine," John said strongly. "We'll clear this shortly and the rest of the flight is going to be smooth sailing. Alright?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before ducking his head in a nod. "Yes... not that you would know, really."

"You doubt my deduction?"

"Well, anything can happen," Sherlock muttered.

"Anything can. I could become a genius in the next twenty minutes," John said cheerfully, dropping his hand.

Sherlock stared, again, before raising his chin slightly and straightening his spine. "I take it back. Not everything can happen," he muttered.

John laughed quietly and offered Sherlock's earbuds back to him. "Put those in, put on something relaxing, and... you know, relax."

Sherlock paused before taking them, pushing them back into his ears with a hesitant half-smile.

* * *

**Okay, call it OOC. Get it out of your system. Okay? Now onto the point; I'm writing a series dealing with Sherlock having everyday, normal fears. Fear of flying, for instance. I know it's slightly OOC; he doesn't seem like one to be scared of inane things, but I wanted to explore with him being human. (Because I haven't done that enough already...) Each chapter will stand-alone and will not have to be read in any particular order.**

**(Not to mention I'm sort of having a breakdown that the fact that they filmed the last episode of _Cabin Pressure_ last Sunday and I can't write CP when it's making me so sad so I stuck Sherlock on a plane for this chapter as a bit of allusion.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I'm just trying to scare the detective a bit. :D And your opinions are, as always, always the reason that I write at all. Thank you!**


	2. Small Spaces

When the door swung shut behind them, John didn't think much about it. Of course, he noticed afterwards, when he walked straight into Sherlock's back, that they'd just walked into an impossibly cramped closet and he'd really like to get out of it now. He was about to turn around to leave when there was a click and both he and Sherlock paused.

"... John, the door."

"I think-"

"No."

John tried the knob, finding it locked. "Uh... yes. We are. Locked in, that is. In a closet."

"This is not _helping my night_!" Sherlock retorted, voice pitching into an annoyed growl as he grabbed at the doorknob.

John sighed, trying to back away from Sherlock. There was very little room to go anywhere, maybe two feet to the right if he desired. Either way, he and Sherlock would still brush costs no matter if they were standing at the opposite ends of the closet. It was uncomfortable... although John suspected it could be worse. They could be stuck in a lift or a freezer or a sauna.

"Can't we... I don't know, kick it open?"

Sherlock sighed. "Don't be stupid. Didn't you _see_ the lock?"

John opted not to say that he hadn't. He wasn't sure how that stopped them from kicking it open, but Sherlock probably knew best... Besides, Sherlock seemed a little annoyed right now and John did _not_ want to anger the bull he had to sit in a closet with.

"Okay," he said, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. It was chilly. "Well, call Lestrade and maybe he can come and do the lock?"

"Just texted him," Sherlock muttered. He huffed and flopped down in a corner, drawing his knees to his chest.

John sighed and followed his example, crossing his legs.

It started with a sigh.

John didn't think much of it, Sherlock sighing. Sherlock was dramatic. He did things like that, sigh dramatically and flop himself over the furniture. It was very... Sherlock.

And then another sigh, slightly more breathless.

By the third, the sigh had turned into a little cough and John glanced towards him. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

John squinted towards his face to make out the detective's features in the gloom. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "What?"

"What's wrong? You sound... odd."

Sherlock let out the breath he had just taken in a deep gust. "Fine."

Out of reflex, John reached out to press his hand against Sherlock's forehead. It wasn't warm, but he was covered in sweat. "Sherlock, what's _wrong_?"

Sherlock leaned again. "Don't. I'm hot."

"It's not warm."

"_I'm_ burning." Sherlock coughed again, doubling over slightly.

"Sherlock!" John moved over to him. "Sherlock, breathe, what's wrong?"

Sherlock waved his hand around. "The walls... not enough air... Can't breathe."

John frowned. Something about that statement clicked in his mind, but he would focus on it later. "Come on, breathe in. No, just do it with me. In." He took a deep breath and Sherlock seemed to mirror it. "Out."

He kept this regime up for a few more rounds until Sherlock's breathing was somewhat more of a semblance of proper.

"Okay?"

Sherlock sucked in another deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled. "Sort of."

"Just keep taking steady breaths. Can I take your pulse?"

Sherlock paused before holding his hand out. John smiled faintly and pulled the glove off, pressing his fingers gently against Sherlock's wrist.

"You're alright," John murmured. "I promise there's enough air. The ceiling goes up at least nine feet and fresh air is coming in between the cracks of the door. Lestrade will be here soon, anyway. We're both going to be fine."

"Just as the walls aren't actually closing in," Sherlock mumbled weakly. "But my mind plays tricks on me to make me think that they are."

"Claustrophobia," John said.

"Yeah, I know," Sherlock said in the same weak voice. "It's just inconvenient..."

John let go of his wrist. "I know. Just keep breathing, don't think about it. We'll be out soon and on with the case, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

John returned to his spot against the wall, trying to give Sherlock as much space as possible. "I'm sorry that I'm in here with you. Wish you had more space."

Sherlock opened his eyes slightly. "I'm not. I'm glad you're here. I probably would work myself into a true panic attack if you weren't here to reign me in."

"Yeah, but I'm sure it would be less stuffy..."

"Hm." Sherlock dropped his head back against the wall with a thin sigh. "I don't find you stuffy at all."

The back of John's neck started to feel warm and he hoped that he wasn't blushing. It wasn't like there was anything particularly _embarrassing_ about that statement, but... it was a compliment from Sherlock Holmes. Those didn't happen very often.

John chalked it off on the lack of oxygen and turned towards the door to wait, although a small smile played along his lips and he was helpless to push it away.

* * *

**Kudos to EI Cochrane for the wonderful idea. I somehow manage to make these cute and fluffy (in my opinion) for being so short and with a panicky Sherlock. xD**

**Your thoughts? Thank you for the support!**


	3. Dentist

He was nervous.

John could tell it from the moment they stepped into the office. He'd been nervous since last night, since the appointment, but... it was getting kind of extreme, John thought.

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair, eyes flickering from one spot to another. He wasn't saying a word, but his brain was working so fast that it was almost making John's head hurt.

"You don't have to be nervous," he said shortly.

Sherlock's attention snapped around to him. "What? Nervous? I'm not nervous."

John sighed. "Don't act like you're not, your body language gives it away. Besides," he said, glancing towards the receptionist's windows. "Everybody's nervous first time at the dentist."

Sherlock huffed and turned away.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Both Sherlock and John looked up when the nurse called for Sherlock.

"That's you," John said cheerfully, turning the page of a back issue of a gossip magazine. "Have fun."

Sherlock stood up, although he stopped when John spoke. "You're not coming back?"

John glanced up, his laugh turning to a frown when he saw Sherlock's face. "Why would I...? Unless... you want me to?"

Sherlock stared at him studiously.

John sighed. "Fine." He stood up, taking the magazine with him. "Go on. _I _can't do anything, you know."

"I didn't say you could." Sherlock strode ahead and followed the nurse back to the room, John trailing behind.

The man could be wrist-deep in a corpse but he was still nervous about the dentist. John would have laughed - and probably would, later - if Sherlock's face didn't look so serious.

See, he'd had a toothache. Which nearly put the man out of commission, because Sherlock didn't deal with annoyances very well. It was like a person thinking too much; he couldn't handle the constant throb beneath his gums when he chewed. So, after going through the hassle of finding Sherlock a dentist (because he hadn't been to one since he was a child, apparently), they were here, finally, and Sherlock was nervous.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably when the nurse had left, saying the doctor would be in shortly. He thumped his head back into the rest and then shifted again.

John looked up just as Sherlock was about to stand up. "What _are_ you doing? Sit still," he muttered.

"I can't," Sherlock retorted. "I'm antsy. I don't like having someone muck about in my mouth, with my teeth."

"I thought you hadn't been to a dentist," John said dryly.

"I don't like the _idea_ of it," Sherlock stressed. "Which is why I've never been. I take care of my teeth _for_ that reason."

John shook his head and was about to turn back to his crap magazine when he noticed Sherlock's hair quivering. Trembling, actually. Which probably meant- "Are you shivering?" he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Sherlock shrank in on himself slightly. "It's cold."

"No, it's not." John put his magazine down. "Just calm down. It's not going to hurt."

"That remains to be seen," Sherlock muttered.

"They'll put some gel on your gum before they even give you the shot, so it'll just bit a little pinch and pressure after you're numb. It's not going to hurt," John repeated firmly. If Sherlock could remember complex chemistry formulas, maybe John battering this into Sherlock's brain would help him calm down, too. "Just close your eyes when they're working."

"Sensory deprivation," Sherlock immediately shot back.

"Yeah, but if you're watching, you'll worry more about what they're doing with what they're putting in your mouth and the tools can look scarier than they actually are, Sherlock."

Sherlock licked his lips, about to say something else when the dentist walked in.

"Relax," John mouthed, leaning back in his seat as Sherlock leaned back as well. It didn't help the worried look on the detective's face.

For all his worrying, the numbing shot went without complaint, although Sherlock was studiously in a not-talking mood afterwards. His fingers were curled around the armrest of the chair and he didn't relax, despite what John told him.

Sherlock _did_, though, get more and tense as time went on. By the time that the dentist actually started to drill away at his tooth, Sherlock's knuckles were stark white thanks to his grip on the armrest.

Barmy clod.

It was just the dentist. That was nothing compared to some things that Sherlock went through.

John sighed and pushed his chair over. "Let me know if I'm in your way, Jay," he said to dentist - this was _his_ dentist, actually - and settled next to Sherlock, tapping the back of his hand absently.

Sherlock jumped, although, after a second, his fingers settled over John's. He started tapping; it took John a few seconds to realise Sherlock was tapping out Morse to him.

_C-A-N-T_.

Can't. John tilted his head. _C-A-N-T_-_W-H-A-T_ he tapped back.

_R-E-L-A-X_.

John sighed. Instead of tapping a response back - he wasn't going to try and argue in Morse with Sherlock, not like this - he just settled his hand on top of Sherlock's. He knew what it would look like. He didn't care.

Sherlock's fingers shifted again to wrap around John's hand, squeezing his fingers tightly.

John smiled faintly, squeezing back gently.

* * *

**Coming from somebody who was worked up to the point of tears about having to go to the dentist this week for something that went very smoothly (thank you, dentist). Also, coming from somebody who's been to the dentist so much that I _shouldn't_ even be nervous at this point but always end up shivering with my hands curled into fists into my coat pockets. x'D Anyway, it doesn't seem like Sherlock would spend a lot of time at the dentist - personal hygiene, especially his hair and teeth, would be my top guess for Sherlock's 'priority' list.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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